Friday, August 10, 2012

Alone with the Murder

Like a sailor hauling men overboard
on decks, he lowers the latch
on the door of his 8 x 24
cargo container for the final
shut-in. Deserting
her to that rich valley between his prison cell
walls. Alone
with the murder, the dog surveys
the herculean climb to the bottom of his
potential.  Heave,
the sickness ailing him is more than
merely viral, it’s virtual; worse than the rhythmic pace of
inside the solitude of international shipping,
he denies the social squawk any shot
of simplifying his situation. The only crook
his love ever knew he won’t let
escape. Wrecking
logistics, he bears the incessant need to scrape
away from under his nails gathering
rust. A sea
of tacit whispers goads him on to forgetting that stomping ground
discovered. Rocking
back and forth, not a score of oars could steady his loneliness
now. Mechanic
ghosts left on the outskirts to illicit these thoughts
from a man who, on probabilities, never
burnt the midnight oil.


  1. This reminds me of a scene in The Count of Monte Cristo.

    I always love to read your writing, Ang.

  2. Thank you Ashley. Glad to have reminded you of such a classic! That's elite company. Please share!